Going for the Record Read online

  “Stop it, Dad. Don’t talk like that. You act like it’s a done deal.” My nose stings; I’m going to cry again. I turn and look out the window.

  “You might not want to hear it,” says Dad, “but you need to. You need to understand. I’d rather spend sixty good days with you than live for six more months and put us all through hell. I’d have to go downstate for treatments. That’s a lot of traveling, a lot of time, and a lot of money. Insurance won’t pay for anything experimental. It’s going to be enough of a drain on the family emotionally; I don’t want to put us under financially, too.”

  Financially? How can he talk like this? How can he put a dollar and cent value on his life?

  “Doctors can be wrong, Dad. You should get a second opinion.”

  “I did.”

  That settles that, I guess. I deflate into the seat.

  “Well, sort of,” Dad admits. “Dr. Michaels suspected it was cancer when I first went in. He sent me to a specialist who confirmed the diagnosis, and he gave me the name of three other specialists I could go to for second opinions. But he said I have a classic case, all the signs and symptoms.”

  “What signs? What symptoms? Besides a stomachache.”

  “It’s a bad stomachache, Weez. And I’ve lost a lot of weight.”

  “I thought you were on a diet.”

  “Shoot, everyone’s on a diet when they’re my age. But I haven’t been eating any less than I ever do.”

  “Maybe it’s all the golf you’ve been playing this summer.”

  “I always play this much golf. Listen, they aren’t just going by the stomach pains and the weight loss. I’m jaundiced, too.”

  I look hard at Dad—his face, his hands, his legs sticking out of his shorts. He’s brown as a nut, Gram would say, healthy-looking as ever.

  Dad sees me examining him. “The doctor said it’s hard to notice when you have a tan. He saw it in my eyes.” Dad pulls his glasses down his nose. “See how the whites have yellowed?”

  Sure enough. It’s no wonder none of us ever noticed it, though; he’s always wearing those stupid glasses. Dad and his photo grays. He wears them all the time, inside and out.

  Paul used to tease him, “Who do you think you are, Dad, a movie star? Buy yourself some regular glasses and save these for outside.”

  “I’m in and out of the restaurant all day long,” Dad would argue. “I can’t be fidgeting around for another pair of glasses every time I go outside. Besides, they lighten up indoors.”

  “Not enough they don’t,” Paul would say, and he’s right; even at their lightest, the lenses are brown like iced tea.

  “Okay,” I say to Dad, “so you have stomachaches, you’ve lost weight, and you’re jaundiced. How do they know that means you have cancer?”

  “Weez,” Dad says in a real tired voice, “they’ve done tests to confirm it. Blood tests, needle biopsies, ultrasounds. They know it’s cancer.”

  “We’ve got to stop by the restaurant on the way home,” Dad says when we hit Chums Corners. It’s the first thing he’s said since Cadillac.

  “Why?” I just want to get home.

  “Your mom wants me to pick up dinner. It’ll only take a minute.”

  I cough a sigh at him. His stops at the restaurant take forever. I can’t believe he’s in the mood to see anyone. I’m certainly not. Flipping up the visor mirror, I see that my eyes are as swollen and bloodshot as they feel. “I’ll wait in the car.”

  “Come on in, Weez. You look fine.”

  “Oh, all right.” I unbuckle and follow him in.

  Pushing through the restaurant’s double doors, the Grand Pooh-Bah enters his domain. He’s so funny, the way he moves. It’s not really a strut or a swagger, but it’s proud, almost cocky in its coolness, its slowness no matter what the rush. He’s like a float going by in a parade.

  “How do you like what we did while you were gone?” Dad hollers back to me over the murmur of voices and clink of china, pointing out the freshly painted woodwork.

  I lean against a pillar and watch him. You’d never know that there’s anything wrong with him. He’s weaving in and out among the tables, patting backs, shaking hands, waving and smiling.

  He looks good. With his potbelly gone, I notice how straight he stands. Except for the gray hair, he looks like he did when he was thirty. And I’m struck by his jaw line. When he was heavier, his face tapered into the thickness of his neck, and I never noticed it. He looks really handsome tonight.

  I bet they’re wrong. I bet he’s fine.

  “Hey, Leah!” A yell comes from behind the swinging kitchen doors.

  I go back and say hi to Kristin and the rest of the dishwashing crew. Enzo’s there, too. He’s hilarious. He fits right in with these kids. He’s fifty going on fifteen with his shaggy hair and his jeans sliding down his butt.

  “How’re you doing?” Kristin yells over the hand-held sprayer she’s waving. “I haven’t seen you since before school let out.” Kristin plays goalie on our high school team. We’re going to be co-captains this year.

  “I know,” I yell back to Kristin. “I just got back from ODP camp.”

  “Yeah? How’d it go?”

  “Good. Really good.” I don’t feel like talking, but I don’t want to seem like a snob. “What’ve you been up to?”

  Kristin holds up her yellow-gloved hands. “Right here, making money. I’m taking a week off next month to go to soccer camp at Central, though.”

  “Good for you!” I know that’s what she wants to hear. A whole week of camp is more than most of the players on our team will do.

  “Yeah, I’ve got to get these hands and feet ready. Nobody gets by us unless the ball gets past me.”

  “Come on, Kristin.” I say, warming up now. “You know the sad truth. Goalies never win games for you, but they sure can lose them.”

  “Shut up, Leah!” She laughs and flings a handful of suds at me. “Get out of here before your dad fires me. I’ve got work to do.”

  “When’s your old man going to put you to work?” asks Enzo. He hikes up his pants and slicks back his hair, challenging me. Enzo loves to spar.

  I blush. Not because of what he thinks—Enzo’s been with us ever since I can remember; he’s like an uncle to me—but because of the other people here.

  “Enzo,” I tease him back for everyone to hear, “you know I’m the fill-in girl. I only work when one of you gets sick. Otherwise, I hang around eating up the profits and watching European soccer on the big screen in the bar.”

  You see, that’s Enzo. He washes dishes, cooks, waits tables, runs errands, and does whatever else Dad needs. And he loves soccer. He and his buddies live for their Saturday pick-up games.

  “Must be nice.” Enzo pretends I’m really talking about myself.

  “Somebody’s got to be available. Besides, I’m busy with soccer.” I get a little bit serious in case the others don’t know we’re teasing.

  Enzo winks. “You don’t have to do no explaining to me. I know you got things going. I see how you run your old man ragged with all the chasing around after you he does.”

  I try to smile because I really like Enzo. He didn’t mean anything by that.

  “Come on, Weez.” Dad sweeps by carrying a stack of carry-out containers in one hand and a white bag in the other. “Let’s get this food home to your mother while it’s still hot.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Mom runs down the back steps like she’s been watching for us. She looks terrible. Her hair’s a mess. There are dark circles under her eyes. She doesn’t say anything, just hugs me and makes lots of gulpy, swallowing noises.

  We go inside, the three of us, arm in arm, and sit on the couch. Mom and Dad go to reach for each other and, being that their inside arms are stuck around my shoulders, I’m drawn into a three-way embrace with them. We sit, heads together, saying nothing. Then Mom and Dad start crying.

  Maybe it’s because I had a big cry a couple hours ago, but I feel rather indifferent to it all. I�
��m just sitting here holding up these two adults. It’s weird; for the first time in my life I feel stronger than my parents. I’ve only seen Dad cry once before, the day Paul went away to college.

  “Well, Leah,” Mom finally says, sniffling into a Kleenex she’s pulled from her sleeve, “you know our news. Let’s hear yours. How was your week?”

  We all sit back.

  “It was good. I made the regional team. Big deal, huh?”

  Mom and Dad burst out laughing.

  “Oh, it feels so good to laugh!” cries Mom, dabbing her eyes. “Seriously, though, Leah, congratulations. I’m sorry you can’t enjoy your accomplishment like you might have.”

  “Yeah, we sure got thrown a curve ball.” Everything’s a cliché to Dad.

  “Speaking of baseball, where’s Gram?” I ask.

  “Back in her room,” says Mom. “Why don’t you go and see her.”

  Gram’s head is bent low over a newspaper crossword puzzle and she’s listening, as usual, to the crackly broadcast of a Brewer’s game on her radio.

  “Hi, Gram.”

  She peers up over her glasses. “Well, look who’s home. Our little nomad.”

  I force a smile.

  “So you know about your pa.” Gram pats the end of her bed for me to sit down.

  “Brewers are up nine to one in the eighth. They’ve got the game all sewed up,” she says, turning the radio off. “Here, sweetie, have some nusheri.” Using her foot, she hooks a plastic container of pistachios and pulls it out from under the bed. I don’t feel like any, but I pick it up anyway.

  “I can’t believe it about Dad,” I say. “I wish it was one of his stupid April Fools jokes.” Once he fell off of his chair and lay motionless on the floor. Mom did CPR on him until he couldn’t keep a straight face any longer.

  “I too, I too,” Gram says softly, shaking her head.

  “What are we going to do, Gram?” My voice cracks.

  “We’re going to storm heaven, that’s what we’re going to do.” She pounds her fist on the arm of her stuffed chair. “We’ll pray and we’ll pray and we’ll pray until Jesus gets so sick of hearing us that he says, ‘Okay, okay, I’ll do it. I’ll make him better.’”

  “I knew I could count on you, Gram!” I lean over and give her a hug. “I mean, no matter what the doctors say, there’s always hope, right?”

  “That’s right. Them folks on the talk shows, they beat the odds all the time. No reason your pa can’t be like them.”

  “I wish they believed that.”

  “What do you mean, they? Who?”

  “Mom and Dad. It’s like they’ve already given up.”

  “Oh, sweetie, they’re in shock. Give them time. Your dad’s a fighter. If anyone can beat this, he can.”

  I’m staring down at the pistachios, not wanting her to see that I’m not so sure.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  I can’t lie to Gram. I raise my head and look at her. “I was just thinking, what if. What if Dad does die?”

  “You dasn’t talk like that!” Gram shakes a finger at me. “Don’t let them thoughts enter your mind, much less come out your mouth. Prayers don’t do no good if you haven’t got faith in our Lord’s power to deliver on them.”

  “Take these nuts out and share them with your mom and dad,” Gram orders me. “It’s time for me to say my rosary.”

  I’m walking down the hall with the pistachios when Mom yells, “Leah, Telephone!”

  She’s standing in the kitchen with her hand over the receiver, grinning. “It’s Clay,” she whispers, making her eyebrows dance.

  It’s so stupid. Just because Clay and I hang out together Mom thinks we’re in love. It’s all wishful thinking on her part. She’s always telling me how she started dating when she was thirteen. She can’t seem to understand that I have no interest.

  “Hi, Clay,” I say, flashing a steely glare at Mom. She goes away, but not out of eavesdropping range; I can hear her spangly bracelets jingling in the pantry.

  “Welcome home, partner! How’d it go?” It’s good to hear his voice.

  “I made the regional team.”

  “All right! I knew you would. See? All that work we did paid off. And you have nobody but me, your personal trainer, to thank.”

  Clay plays soccer, too. He’s not that good, but being a guy, he’s stronger and faster, so he’s a great training partner.

  “I know. What would I do without you?” I say.

  “Hey, do you want to go for a run? I was such a slouch while you were gone.”

  “No, I’m really tired.”

  “You, tired? What? Can it be? We’re talking about the famous Weasel Weiczynkowski.”

  “Shut up, Clay.”

  “No, really! I’ve never heard you talk like that. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Do you want to do something else, then? Go swimming? Waterskiing? I could drive over in the boat and pick you up in five minutes.”

  Clay lives on the peninsula. You can see his house across the water from our living room window.

  “Nah, we’re about to eat dinner.”

  “What about later tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I’m really tired.” I look around; Mom’s still within hearing distance. “How about I give you a call after dinner? Maybe I’ll feel better by then.”

  Dinner is weird. After we pray—the same old “Bless Us, Oh Lord” we always rattle off—it’s like nobody knows what to say.

  Gram breaks the ice. “The Brewers won today. Nine to one.”

  “Did they, Ma?” says Dad. “That’s good. Who’d they play?”

  “The Red Sox.”

  Dad nods.

  Mom clears her throat. “Would anyone like a roll?”

  “So Paul and Mary are coming up,” says Dad, taking a roll.

  “Yes. They’ll both be here for dinner tomorrow night,” says Mom.

  I freeze, a forkful of food about to enter my open mouth. They both live downstate, a good five hours away; they rarely come to visit unless it’s a holiday.

  “Paul and Mary know?” I say. “When did they find out?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. We called them pretty much right away.”

  “So they’ve known for almost a week and you’re just now telling me?”

  “We didn’t want to interrupt your camp,” says Mom. “It would have spoiled the week for you.”

  “Who cares? My whole year is spoiled! What would another week have mattered?” I’m trying not to yell. “You should have told me right away!”

  “Oh, Leah.”

  “No, really. I might be the baby of the family, but you don’t have to spare me. I can take it. I can handle it.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry,” says Mom. “Maybe we should have told you sooner.”

  “Maybe? Wouldn’t you have wanted to know right away?”

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. From now on we’ll be sure to tell you as soon as we know something. I promise.”

  Normally Dad doesn’t let me speak that way to Mom, but he hasn’t said a word.

  “You should give your brothers a call tonight, Pete,” Mom says to Dad.

  “Why?”

  “Well, if this is how Leah reacts—”

  “That’s right,” says Gram. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but,” she points her finger at Dad, “you’d want to know if one of them was sick.”

  Dad gets on the phone right after dinner.

  “Hey, Al.” Uncle Al is Dad’s oldest brother. He has five, and when there’s big news, he always calls them in order, oldest to youngest. So I know there are four more calls after this one.

  I go out into the living room and turn on the TV. Even if I don’t want to hear what Dad is saying, I will anyway. Our house is open between the kitchen, dining room, and living room, and Dad talks really loud. Sometimes I wish he had a dial on his chest and I could go over and turn his volume down.

  “How’re you doing, Al? … Me? Well, I
haven’t been feeling too sharp…. Stomach pains. Got so bad I finally went in for a checkup … Thought it was an intestinal bug, but I’ll be damned if the doctor didn’t tell me it was cancer.”

  He’s bellowing it out like they’re discussing a Packer’s game, and he’s strolling around like he does when he cruises the restaurant, shoulders back, chest out, gut sucked in, as if Uncle Al can see him. “No, they don’t have to operate … Chemo? I don’t know. I’ve got an appointment with the doctor Monday. I’ll know more then. Hey, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Besides a twinge now and then, I feel fine.”

  Liar.

  “Don’t worry. I’m a tough old dog. I’ll beat this thing,” says Dad.

  I can’t believe my ears. I’m glad to hear it, but does he really believe it? Or is he just saying it to make Uncle Al feel better?

  Dad calls Uncle Jerry, Uncle Keith, Uncle Frank, and Uncle Joey, saying the same things over and over, trying to sound upbeat. When he’s finished he takes his glasses off and sits down in a heap at the dining room table, rubbing his eyes, totally spent.

  I take the cordless phone into my bedroom.

  “Clay? Sorry. My dad’s been on the phone all night. I know it’s too late to go out in the boat, but do you want to get some ice cream?”

  “Sure. I’ll pick you up.” Clay has his own car. He got it for his sixteenth birthday, the brat.

  “I’ll meet you at the end of the driveway,” I say.

  “Whatever.” Clay knows I’m weird about having him over. He doesn’t say anything about it anymore, but it used to bug him. If we’re just friends, he’d say, why do you care what your parents think? I know, I’d say, but I hate how my mom watches us, and, my dad’ll tease me about it even though he knows there’s nothing to it.

  I put on my running shoes so it looks like I’m going jogging. I don’t want them to think Clay’s taking me out on a date.

  “Mom? Dad? I’m going out for a while,” I yell.

  Mom comes twinkle toeing out from her bedroom. “Oh, honey, you’re not going running, are you? Give yourself a rest.”

  “I’m stiff, Mom. I’ve got to loosen up my legs.”

  “Honestly, Leah, I think you’re addicted to it. You’re obsessed with soccer.”